


Vamp

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, F/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 17:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11972370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: “Is my music interrupting your beauty sleep?”  He’s not usually like this, a little rough, goading and teasing.  He wonders briefly what it is about her that makes it so impossible to apologize.  She glares at him and he fights down a smile.  “I couldn’t sleep.”





	Vamp

**Author's Note:**

> Resurrecting another ancient WIP. In keeping with the artisanal theme, Will's a musician this week.
> 
> Warnings for mild language.

It’s been a dreary day, one full of a cold spitting rain and more misfortune than he cares to think about. 

He can’t see the rain. It’s been a couple of hours since he could, but it’s still out there pinging bitterly against the wall of glass in front of him. The courtyard beyond the hazy ring of light he’s sitting in is empty. Normally he would sit out there with his beer and his guitar. He never bothered anyone out there; he never bothered anyone.

There’s a couple of girls, their friends and one of his, sprawled limbs akimbo in his room down the hall. They’re all asleep, half asleep, or fucking by now.

It’s late, he knows that, but he’s never minded the dark, the shadows, secrets, and mystery. He likes the way it blots out everything else and reflects him back to himself in every shimmering previously transparent surface. You can’t see it, but you can see yourself, distorted but somehow clearer around the edges. It was sort of poetic.

He was sort of drunk, but he likes that too. They had canceled his gig, again, and he wasn’t in much of a mood to think about that. He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything right now, just a warm beer, half remembered song lyrics, and the always familiar cords under his fingertips.

There was a sort of peace in times like these that he could never find anywhere else, not even up on stage, not even when that was what he wanted more than anything. Popularity, fame, he liked those of course, who didn’t, but it was being seen, all jagged and raw, all blurry around the edges that gave him the best high. Even in his own head it sounded pathetic, the sort of weepy romance one expected all too readily in an artist managing, slowly, to climb from obscurity. He liked that too.

“Do you mind?”

He looks up from the floor, the cords faltering but not quite stopping, fingers still plucking experimentally at the strings.

She’s standing by his outstretched legs, frowning furiously at his feet. He draws his legs up but she doesn’t move. Instead, her gaze travels upward, crawling over him until she meets his eye.

“You’re drunk.”

“One beer.” He shrugs a shoulder and offers her a lopsided smile. Most women liked the smile; they found it endearing. She seems to be immune. 

“Your noise is making it hard to sleep.”

“Is my music interrupting your beauty sleep?” He’s not usually like this, a little rough, goading and teasing. He wonders briefly what it is about her that makes it so impossible to apologize. She glares at him and he fights down a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“And now I can’t either?”

He doesn’t say anything. Her fingers tap against her skirt, black, expensive. The sleeves of her blazer rests farther up her arms than what he’d normally expect. Slender wrists, a watch, a thread-like gold bracelet span the space below the cuffs.

“There’s a song about a girl like you.” His voice drops low, still teasing but edged with his stage voice, more smoky and even-cadenced than usual. The cord progression shifts.

He vamps the beginning of the song, over and over. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He wants to see what she’s going to do next.

“You’re an ass.” She says it firmly, vowels slip sliding through the air between them.

He doesn’t disagree.

She seems to be enjoying herself, not in a chagrined and irritated sort of way, but actually enjoying herself. He’s met a lot of people who liked to dump on him, who wanted nothing more than to beat him down. She was something else entirely.

“Will McAvoy.” He holds out a hand half expecting her to crush it, break it, or otherwise maim him.

She narrows her eyes, but the lines of anger around her mouth ease. “If I’m flattered will you put that thing away?”

“This thing is a guitar and I might, although you might have to flatter me first. Drink?” He suggests and she looks at him disbelievingly.

“It’s three am.”

“It’s three am.” He parrots slowly. His fingers on the frets stop. He looks over at his beer and then up at her. “When did that happen?”

“About five minutes ago.” She’s still holding her own, steady and stern, but the irritation is all but gone. There’s sparkle in her eye. She’s caught him off guard and she’s enjoying it.

“The bar is closed then. My room is full of idiots. I hate to sound like a cliché-” 

“Ass.” She supplies helpfully and he smirks, repeating, “ass. I hate to sound like a clichéd ass, but you wouldn’t happen to have a room in this fine establishment would you?”

She’s been looking him over since the moment she’d arrived but it still surprises him when she doesn’t miss a beat. “I do, but you’re going to have to move first. You’re sitting in front of my door.”

“I’m sitting-“ he starts and then stops, stumbling awkwardly to his feet with a wince. “That’s your door?”

“One oh eight.”

“There’s no number.”

Her chin dips toward the adjoining door. “One oh nine,” she peers farther on, “one ten.”

“One oh seven.” He indicated a door at the opposite end of the hall. “One oh- You weren’t trying to sleep were you…?”

She grins suddenly, clearly not minding being called out. “MacKenzie. Joey at the front desk mentioned I might have to ask you to move. Apparently you’ve been out here moping all night.”

“Ruminating not moping.”

“All night.”

“Yes,” he grinds out much to her amusement. “I’m a musician. It’s allowed.”

She looks horrified at the thought, but the grin reappears slowly as she holds open the door for him. “Are you coming in Mr. Musician or am I going to have to slam the door into the back of your thick skull when I leave in the morning?”

“It’s Will and my skull isn’t-“

“In.”

He sighs and leans his guitar against the wall inside the door. “It’s nice to meet you MacKenzie. Can I get you something from the mini bar?”

The door clicks shut behind him. She saunters by, losing her heels and her hair clip as she moves past the double bed. “It’s my room, you ass. I’m ordering room service. What do you want?”


End file.
